The Long Midnight Of Barney Thomson (24 page)

Holdall sat back, rubbed his chin. He liked it. It was all circumstantial, but it had a good feel to it. An honest feel about it, which Chris Porter running off to London leaving a hand cooking in a pot didn't have.

'Stuart, I'm impressed. I like this, and we've got to go with it, regardless of what that eejit Robertson says. We need to do some more checking on this mother, and I think we should have another word with Mr. Thomson in the next day or two.'

'Aye, sir.'

MacPherson smiled determinedly, walked out of the office. Holdall got off his chair to pick up the cards. Thank God for that. They had something to go on, at last, and a decent working hypothesis. No point in taking it to McMenemy yet, because he was as bad as Robertson, but in a couple of days they might have made enough inroads into the thing to be able to go public. Or they might have made complete idiots of themselves.

He winced at the thought, sat back in his seat and watched as the ace of spades flew straight into the centre of the bin. Then bounced out and landed four feet away in the base of a plant.

*

Bill and Barney were involved in another life and death struggle on the dominoes pitch. They'd both been putting so much concentration into it because neither man wanted to talk about what they were both there to talk about. So, apart from a brief argument about who should buy the first round, hardly a word had been exchanged.

Finally, after a few intricate stratagems involving double fours and threes, Bill had wrapped up his third game in a row. A little silent resentment from Barney and it was time to talk.

They sipped solemnly on their beers, waiting for the other to start. Barney had no wish to encourage him; Bill, the Great Diplomat, once again had no idea where to begin.

'So, Barney,' he said eventually, the art of subtlety still a mystery to him, 'any idea what's happened to Chris?'

Barney took a long draw from his pint this time.

'No, I don't. Or as much as you, at any rate, given what I've read in the papers. And if you're here to imply anything else, then you might as well get on with it.'

Bill held aloft a conciliatory hand. He had no desire to get straight into any argument but at the same time he saw no reason for delicacy. It was just over a week since they'd sat in the same bar and Barney had told him how much he hated Wullie and Chris.

'You really think that Chris killed Wullie, Barney? They were mates. Chris couldn't have killed anybody.'

'And I could?'

Bill shook his head, wondered again about Barney being so aggressively defensive.

'Calm down, Barney. Whatever happened, it's obvious that someone killed Wullie, and I'm just saying that it's right odd that it should be Chris of all people. Such a nice lad, and the two of them getting on so well and all that.'

Barney hesitated. Perhaps he had been overdoing it a little. He nodded. He was going to have to get into the persona of someone who hadn't killed his two work colleagues and disposed of six other bodies, and be convincing about it. The police had left him alone for the moment but it didn't mean they wouldn't be back. And if he couldn't convince Bill, he certainly wasn't going to be able to convince that bastard MacPherson.

'You're right, Bill. I know you're not accusing me of anything. It's just been an awful week, what with they two dying, and my mother 'n all.'

Bill nodded. Was feeling guilty enough about accusing Barney that the words didn't register. This man was his oldest friend after all. He had to stop so lightly accusing him of murder. Or worse, as it was now. It went a lot further than that, if the papers were anything to go by. There was some psychopath on the loose, and whoever it was, it surely wasn't going to be his old dominoes partner. But then surely it wasn't Chris either.

What was it Barney had just said that had been peculiar?

'The new lad's quite a nice chap,' said Barney, breaking his chain of thought.'

'Oh, aye?' said Bill. 'Who is he exactly?'

'Friend of James's. Just moved over from Uddingston.'

'Oh, right. The south.'

'Aye. Just started yesterday. A steady hand, I think.'

'Smashing. That'll be just what you'll be needing.'

'Aye.'

'Aye, that's right enough.'

'Fancy another game? It's time I kicked your arse.'

'Rack 'em up.'

And so they settled down into another dour and tense struggle on the dominoes table. It wasn't until they were into their second hand that it suddenly struck Bill that Barney had said that both Chris and Wullie had died. There was a mild flicker on his face but he managed to contain it within the lugubrious whole. Perhaps it had just been a slip of the tongue. Or perhaps, Barney knew something that he didn't.

26

The Haunting Of

Barney Thomson

Barney had had a good day in the shop. He liked Thursdays, always had for some reason. It was just some gut, barbetorial instinct, but he felt as if he always did good work on those days, and today had been no exception. Whether it was as a result of some fine work he'd done earlier in the week, or whether it was because the customers didn't like the look of the other two, he wasn't sure, but he'd never had so many people ask for him to cut their hair. And he had responded magnificently, customer after customer leaving the shop with dream hair. He'd not even been daunted when one man had requested a Byzantine Triple Weave, generally regarded as the toughest haircut in the world. He'd executed it with knightly splendour, his scissors swooping to cut like a majestic, unfettered eagle, his blow dryer exercising consummate control over the intricate thatched patterns; his comb could have been forged in the Elven forests of Middle Earth, so smoothly had it been wielded in his hands. When he'd finished, he'd almost expected the rest of the shop to rise in calamitous applause, but instead there'd just been the usual rustle of paper, the soft fall of hair to the ground. The man had stuck an extra fifty pence into his hand and left; the meagre gift the Gods receive. Perhaps he wouldn't be mentioned in the Birthday Honours list for that haircut but at least he'd had the satisfaction of a job well done. Indeed, magnificently done.

And so the day had gone on. One dream haircut after another, all swiftly done and beautifully presented. Never before had a barber been so busy and Barney had risen to the challenge with a magnificence which clearly amazed his colleagues. And he was finding that the longer it was since the police had last been to see him, the more relaxed he was becoming about it. It had only been four days, yet it was enough to give him some breathing space, allow him to think they were off his trail.

Furthermore, there had been a wonderful item on the news the previous night, when some buffoon of a policeman had said that there had been a possible sighting of Chris in London. Heaven! They had obviously completely fallen for it. If he'd known the police were this stupid, he would've turned to crime years ago. He was thinking he might let all this die down and then try something else. Not grotesque murder, of course, something more financially rewarding.

He'd had a few worries with Bill the night before and he wasn't sure that he'd handled it all that well, but in the end he'd thought he'd got away with it. It was one thing for Bill to have his little suspicions, another altogether for him to go trundling along to the police. And anyway, would they listen, now that they were so consumed with the search for Chris? He wasn't out of the woods yet but he was standing at the edge of them looking at a beautiful green field with glorious snow-capped mountains in the distance.

Mentally free of his troubles, he had relaxed into the routine of majestic haircutting, and on occasion exercising his new found confidence with trivia.

His last customer of the day had asked for, surprisingly, an Argentina '78. It was the first one of those he'd had to do in over fifteen years, and normally it might have given him cause for trepidation. But not today, now that he was exercising all his new wiles and confidence to their fullest extent.

'What? What kind of muppet are you? You're saying that Tyson would've beaten Rocky Marciano? You're joking? All right, so he dominated boxing before he went to prison, but you've got to look at the quality of the opposition. Marciano was fighting against some of the greats, and he never lost to any of them. Look who Tyson beat. A bunch of glaicket, useless wankers! My mother could sort out most of the mob. Frank Bruno, for fuck's sake.'

Barney nodded at the chap as he went into the closing routine of the haircut – the sewing back up, as it were. He was a little out of his depth here, he had to admit. He'd just made the bold statement that Tyson would have floored Marciano, when up until the point that the customer had mentioned the name, Barney would've said that Marciano was a type of pasta. That's not to say that he wasn't just as likely to find someone who would have agreed with him about the Tyson-Marciano match-up, but when you're talking about boxing you usually have to count on an argument.

'I suppose you'll be saying next that Tyson could've beaten Ali?'

Barney thought about this for a second or two; had no idea who Argentina '78 was talking about, realised once again the folly of reading the sports pages for three days, then trying to discuss them. It was obvious from the way it had been phrased, however, what he was supposed to say.

'Ali! God, no, I wouldn't go that far. It's just, Tyson can punch, you know, and when you can punch like him, you can give anybody a go.'

'So what? Are you saying that Ali couldn't take a punch, is that it? Is that the crap you're coming out with, 'cause if it is, you're talking shite. You not remember the Rumble in the Jungle, Wee Man? Did Ali not take everything Foreman could give him, yon night? 'Cause he did. I suppose you'll be saying next that Foreman couldn't punch, 'cause that's about the level of everything else you've been coming out with. I'm telling you, Foreman could bloody punch but. And a damn sight harder than any of these namby-pamby muppets you get these days. Christ, the very fact that that old pudding was still taking them all on, even though he was in his sixties, surely to shite shows you what the talent's like in the modern era. So what does it mean if Tyson can beat most of them? It means dick all, especially when he couldn't even beat Holyfield, and remember that yon eejit wasn't even a proper heavyweight.'

Barney nodded a few times, grateful that the man had turned the argument into an aggressive monologue, for in precluding Barney from the conversation, he had prevented him from saying anything else monumentally stupid. He badly wanted to change the subject but didn't know how to just step into the middle of the flow and start talking about the weather. Still, he was going to have to do it before Argentina '78 moved off into territory even more unbeknown to him.

The telephone out the back of the shop rang and James, who was in the middle of a tricky Lennie Bennett '91, looked at the other two.

'Arnie, could you get that please? Probably just some numpty trying to make an appointment.'

Arnie had been doing a straightforward 'Groomed Oor Wullie' on an eight year-old and was happy to down tools.

Whoever it was, Barney didn't care, but at least it had stopped the boxing fan's flow. Probably best not to talk about anything at all, Barney reflected, in case he wanted to get into some other impenetrable sport.

'It's for you, Barney,' said Arnie coming out of the back. 'Didn't say who it was.'

Barney creased his forehead, made his apologies to his customer. No one ever phoned him at work. He had no idea why, but suddenly he began to feel nervous; a shiver ran down his back, the hairs on his neck rose; body tingled.

He closed the door, lifted the phone. He paused for a second. Knew he wasn't going to like this.

'Hello?' His voice was quiet, almost unintelligible. There was no reply. 'Hello?' he said, a little louder.

'Barney Thomson?'

It was a man, a little younger than himself probably. Nothing much else to read into it. He remained hesitant.

'Aye.'

The voice came out at him, low and ominous. 'Perhaps you'd better check on that body you disposed of at the weekend.'

Silence.

Barney felt the shock of the words, a train thumping into his chest, crushing his bones.

'What?' His voice was weak, a child crying. 'What did you say?'

Silence. Barney's mouth ran dry, the sweat beaded on his face. Shouted
hello
down the phone another couple of times, but the line was empty. Then it clicked off, and he was holding nothing in his hands; alone in the small back room with his guilt and his fear.

He sat down in the seat, ran his fingers through his hair.

'Christ almighty. Someone knows about Chris. Someone knows. Jesus Christ, did they see me?'

He stared wildly around the room, as if expecting the person to be in there with him. Looked morosely at the floor. The police, it must be the police. But then, what were they doing calling up, leaving cryptic messages? If they knew he'd done it, surely they'd just come for him and beat him to a pulp, like they always did. It must be someone else. Must be. Mind raced.

And what had the Voice meant,
you had better check on the body
? Was it not there anymore? How exactly was he supposed to check on a body which was at the bottom of a deep loch? But then, maybe the loch wasn't so deep. He had just assumed it would be. It could be that he'd ineptly tied it all together and it had come apart. Imagined the body bursting up to the surface, floating ashore. God, it didn't make sense. Why would anyone call him up if that had already happened? Surely they'd just phone the police.

The fear grew within him; perhaps there was some higher force at work. Whose voice had that been? Should he have recognised it? Maybe it was Chris or Wullie? Began the descent into the throes of panic. Didn't believe in ghosts, supernatural forces, but maybe that's what was going on. God, he'd handled eight corpses over the previous weekend, could he be surprised if some weird things started happening?